


Every Day (We Fall Together)

by oldamongdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, John is not coping well, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldamongdreams/pseuds/oldamongdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone around John Watson would say he's doing just fine, all things considered. They don't know just how wrong they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Day (We Fall Together)

When he was out in the real world, he was fine. John found that he could go about his business as though he had never loved a certain mad genius ( _And wasn’t that a tragedy, if there was such a thing_ ) and no one could tell from his actions that inside he was blown all to pieces. The real problem began when he got back to his flat at the end of a long day, the one he had moved into a week After, and shed his masks one by one.

He could forget for long stretches of moments, which made it almost worse ( _Quietly pouring a second cup of tea into the sink for the third time in a week_ ). Even when he was fully aware of what had happened, John couldn’t help talking to _him_ , speaking softly (and sometimes angrily) at the places where _he_ ought to be ( _Is this how he felt?_ John wonders on occasion, _all those times he spoke to me when I was out?_ ). He knows better than to mention this to his therapist.

There are other things he probably ought to mention to her, but that would require him to break his rule of appearing to be fine whenever he is out of his flat. He should probably mention the days he’s called in sick because he can’t bear to appear fine. He spends those days curled up on the couch, his breath coming in short gasps. He should probably tell her that a few weeks ago he took the bullets from his gun and placed them in a safe, careful to leave the key at his office. In the less than clear moments since then, he’s regretted planning so far in advance ( _Cold metal in his mouth, under his chin, against his heart as he pulls the trigger again and again, hoping in vain that he’s missed one_ ).

When he is out of the house he’s fine, and people who are perfectly mentally stable do not bring home keys that unlock the safe that contains the means to end it all. He probably ought to mention that sometimes he’s sure that is the only reason he is still alive, just as he should probably mention that he feels trapped in his brain, like there’s not enough air to keep him fully present.

By the end of the first year, he’s given up hope that it will get better ( _If it means forgetting the best year and a half of his life, he’s not sure he wants it to get better._ ).

By the end of the second year, he’s wandering London at night, hoping someone else will make the decision for him, enjoying the heady sensation of veins humming with adrenaline ( _Mycroft pulls him off the street twice, and John doesn’t try to pretend with him. Mycroft understands._ ).

At the end of the third year, he is genuinely surprised that he is still alive. So for the first time, he asks himself the question that he has been actively avoiding: what am I living for?

John finds he doesn’t have an answer, and an odd sense of peace washes through his tired bones. He’s going to do it, and he won’t have to pretend anymore. And _he’ll_ be there, and they’ll run together. Just like Before. He smiles.

John asks Sarah for two week’s leave. He says that he needs to get out of the city, take some time away from the clinic for a bit. He doesn’t mention that it will have been three years on Saturday, but he still sees the flash of pity in her eyes when she agrees. He tells similar stories to Mike and Greg, who have developed a habit of dropping by on the anniversary, probably to keep John from doing exactly what he’s planning to do. He knows he isn’t imagining the relief in their voices. They think he’s moving on, and he laughs and smiles and lets them.

When he leaves on Friday, he takes the key.

There isn’t much in John’s flat to begin with, but on Friday afternoon he boxes up his books and clothes and teakettle, throws out the milk and leftover takeout. He thinks about writing a note, but doesn’t see the point ( _That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note? He closes his eyes against the memory._ ). The one person he feels he owes an explanation to has already moved on.

John walks through his flat three times on Saturday before deciding on the kitchen. It will be easier to get bloodstains off the tile than the carpet. He’s aware that thought should bother him. It doesn’t.

In the end, he only puts one bullet in his gun. One is all he’ll need, after all, and the empty chambers give him a chance to back out if he changes his mind. He thinks of all the sleepless nights he spent with his gun pressed to his skin, viciously pulling the trigger, and knows he won’t.

John twirls the gun in his hand once, taking comfort in the solid, familiar shape, then clicks off the safety. After a moment’s thought, he presses it to his temple and squeezes the trigger in one fluid motion.

_Click._ If he’s going to back out, now’s the time to do it.

_Click._ His eyes have fallen closed, and he feels a sense of serenity wash over him. Three tries left, but this will be the one. He knows it.

There is a wordless shout from somewhere in front of John ( _And maybe he’s pulled the trigger already, it must have done, because what his brain thinks it hears is impossible_ ….) and something solid barrels into John, knocking him to the floor. His fingers tighten reflexively as he falls.

_Click._

And it’s over, they’ll section him and he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to pretend to be sane, all because he decided not to load every chamber. But none of that matters, because when he opens his eyes it’s to stare into blue-grey-green eyes set into a fierce but familiar face, and then there’s the hesitant brush of lips against his own and fingers edging the gun out of his hand, flicking on the safety. Warm arms surround him.

And he’s fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fic I wrote for this fandom, so I thought it would be fitting to post it first. All mistakes are my own.


End file.
